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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28079718">Crumbs</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede'>Guede</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Men's Football RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas Cookies, Crack Treated Seriously, FC Barcelona, Gen, Humor, Real Madrid CF, Rivalry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:40:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,485</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28079718</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>True rivalry knows no season.  Or recipe.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Crumbs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2010.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sami sighed.  “Really?  We can’t just do a nice team photo?  Look, I’m sure someone has an iPad, they could even whip up sparkly snow effects and—”</p>
<p>Sometimes Mesut could take the whole settling-in thing way too seriously.  He stared at Sami for a moment, then silently shoved a piece of paper in Sami’s face.  It looked official, with the club letterhead on it and colorful bar graphs, and when Sami squinted, he could see a familiar signature at the bottom.  “Like the mister says,” Mesut said gravely, “Real is a club with a great tradition that we have to respect, and if they do videos here instead of cards, then we’re going to do a video.  And it’s damn well going to be better than those yellow-assed goofs at Villarreal.”</p>
<p>“We’re third?  But I didn’t think we even had a video up,” Sami said, reading the graphs.</p>
<p>Mesut blinked.  Then he shrugged and folded up the paper before Sami could read more.  He hooked Sami by the arm and started tugging them along the hallway.  “Yeah, well, that’s for the PR people to figure out.  Come on.  Stop whining.  It could be worse.”</p>
<p>“Fine, but if you come around telling me we’ve got to do mini-movies for Ramadan next, I’m moving back to Germany,” Sami muttered.</p>
<p>He timed it perfectly, since Mesut burst into laughter just as they piled into the room, making them both look like they were thrilled to be there.  The rest of the senior team was already there, along with a couple of the youth-teamers who’d gotten call-ups recently.  You could tell the difference because the senior team was comparing new watches, while the youth-teamers were squirting frosting at each other.</p>
<p>Sami looked at the spread before them and whistled under his breath.  Stupid idea or not, the club must have spent a fortune in some lucky supermarket’s bakery section: sprinkles of every color including gold and silver, the same again for frosting, and even little paintbrushes sitting atop jars of food coloring.  There were also enough premade sugar decorations to deck out an actual Christmas tree.</p>
<p>“Nice.”  Mesut smiled and waved at the others, then awkwardly worked through a greeting in Spanish to Iker, who as usual came over to welcome them.</p>
<p>Sergio took Sami—who wondered again if Iker and Sergio decided ahead of time who rated the full captain’s hug as opposed to just the vice-captain—and slung an arm around Sami’s shoulder.  He said something like ready to have fun, to which Sami vigorously nodded without really trying too hard to get the man’s accent, which made understanding Spanish even harder.  “So, why cookies again?  I’m just curious.”</p>
<p>“Because they did a survey and people like it when their sports heroes make things and act goofy,” Mesut said.  He had that paper out again.  “Man City already did one making cards, and Villarreal did a whole Santa movie thing, and we’re above copying so…cookies.  We make ‘em and the club will send them to needy people.”</p>
<p>“They’ll check the cookies first to make sure we don’t poison anybody by accident, right?  Because that’s not going to be just goofy,” Sami said.</p>
<p>Mesut rolled his eyes.  “Do you <i>have</i> to nitpick?”</p>
<p>“I’m just saying.  And we’re not making the cookies too, are we?” Sami asked.</p>
<p>He’d been speaking in German, but somehow the gist of it got through to Iker, who suddenly put up his hands and started shaking his head.  Then he pointed to Cristiano, who was looking more horrified than Sami had seen him since he’d nearly mixed up his aftershave with his hairgel in the showers.  Cristiano started plucking at his clothes and pointing to his jewelry.  Then he grinned and slapped Kaká on the hip, saying something that made Kaká laugh while looking like the kid who’d gotten an ugly sweater for Christmas.</p>
<p>“Um.  No,” Mesut finally concluded.  “It’d be too messy.  And something about Kaká getting flour on his ass again.  I think that was an inside joke.”</p>
<p>Sami looked at the way the other players were giving Cristiano and Kaká weird looks.  Not giving a damn as usual, Cristiano ruffled Kaká’s hair and then appeared to start talking about its length and layering.  “Yeah.  Okay.  But where are the cookies, then?”</p>
<p>“Aitor,” Iker said.  He pointed.</p>
<p>One of the youth-teamers hopped over and got the door, and pulled it open so that Karanka could wheel in one of those metal kitchen carts.  The cart had three shelves and all of them were piled high with steaming, fresh, delicious-smelling cookies.</p>
<p>Thirty-something hands reached forward.  Karanka produced a giant metal lid from nowhere—seriously, it was too big to fit behind him—and slammed it down on top of the cart.  He and Sami hadn’t spoken too much, but he generally seemed like a nice, if really serious, guy in training.  But right then he was looking at them and at least one youth-teamer had jumped behind Xabi.</p>
<p>“I counted them,” Karanka said in slow, accented, but understandable English.  “I will count again.  Any missing?  No fancy dinner and drink later.  All right?”</p>
<p>Thirty-something heads nodded.  Karanka smiled and lifted the lid, and went around the end of the table to fiddle with the video camera set up there, while the rest of them cautiously edged towards the cookies.</p>
<p>“Isn’t it goofy to sneak cookies while you decorate them?” Sami hissed, picking up some red frosting and a star-shaped cookie.</p>
<p>Mesut shrugged helplessly.  “Look, you want to fuck up the team dinner for everyone, be my guest.  Now pass me those little green balls—no, <i>green</i>, not red.  Man, you’re not going color-blind on me, are you?  I’ve got blue on here already, do you want to get us lynched by the press?”</p>
<p>Sami just gave the man his little green balls.  Some people took this holiday way too seriously.</p>
<p>*	*	*</p>
<p>David gingerly picked up a cookie by the edge and sniffed at it.  Then he put it down on a plate and broke it apart.  “It <i>looks</i> like a cookie,” he said doubtfully.</p>
<p>“But <i>is</i> it?” Pedro asked, bent down beside David, hands on knees.</p>
<p>Xavi looked from them to the giant platter of cookies on the table.  They were beautifully iced and decorated, with the predominant color being…white.  “Oh.  Mourinho sent us something?”</p>
<p>Pedro and David jerked up and stared open-mouthed at Xavi.  “How did you know?”</p>
<p>“Because…Pep sent the man a bottle of wine and some ham, as a gesture of goodwill, and he’s always got to have the last word?” Xavi said.  He walked over, picked up a cookie and bit into it.  Then he rolled his eyes at the others’ gasps of alarm.  “Tastes good.  Homemade, even.  Actually…” he munched some more “…<i>Basque</i>.”</p>
<p>David blinked.  Then he grabbed up a whole handful.  “Oh, well, I know Xabi, he’s cool and would never poison people with cookies.  Didn’t know he could bake, though.  Mmmmm.  Damn him, he’s been holding out on me.  If I’d known sooner, I would’ve made him—”</p>
<p>The door flung open.  Pep stood there, eyes wide and aghast.  Then his expression shifted to quietly disappointed as he drew himself up.  “Boys, I really thought you knew better.  Cookies right after training?  The diet specifically says—”</p>
<p>Several minutes of profuse apologies later, David and Pedro had slunk out of the door and were headed back out into the cold air for extra training.  And they’d put back the…wait.  Xavi narrowed his eyes.  Nope, David hadn’t been able to resist snagging one cookie.  Oh, well, the man shivered so much even under all his layers that he’d work it off in no time.</p>
<p>“Honestly,” Pep sighed.  He was looking at the cookies again, though this time his expression was a mixture of exasperation and grudging admiration.  “That man never stops, even in the holiday season.  Trying to stuff my players with excess sugar and fat and—”</p>
<p>“Pep,” Xavi said around another cookie.  “Eat the fucking cookies.  They’re good.”</p>
<p>Pep stared at him.</p>
<p>“Or else I’ll tell Figo and you know him, he’ll be texting you photos of Italian cookies for weeks,” Xavi added.  “He’ll probably even pay somebody to bake them outside your window so you can smell them all night.”</p>
<p>For a moment Pep kept staring at Xavi, all disbelief and faint outrage.  Then he blinked.  He looked over his shoulder, then over his other shoulder.  Then he looked at the cookies.  He put out his hand, took it back, and then shrugged and took up a few.  After another moment’s hesitation, he bit into a Real crest.  “Karanka,” he mumbled.  “Brilliant.  But nothing a box of good <i>turrón</i> couldn’t counter…I wonder if I can still get in a special order…”</p>
<p>His job done, Xavi grabbed some more cookies for after dinner and then headed out to join the rest of the team.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Aitor Karanka’s brother went to culinary school and Aitor himself <a href="http://servicios.elcorreo.com/gastronomia/articulos/arti290101.html">knows his way around the kitchen</a>.  Villarreal’s 2010 Christmas video is <a href="http://www.villarrealcf.es/galeriaVideos.php?vid=1292843931&amp;categoria=10">truly the epitome</a> of holiday spirit.  <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turr%C3%B3n">Turrón</a> is the Catalan version of nougat.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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